


the long and winding road

by scribblscrabbl



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Thorin is protective, durin feels galore, five times fic, thar be angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblscrabbl/pseuds/scribblscrabbl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Thorin protected his nephews, and one time they returned the favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the long and winding road

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for a prompt at hobbit-kink. A mish-mash of movie-verse, book-verse, and my rampant imagination. I apologize in advance. And to reinforce the warning in the tags: angst and character death ahead. Tolkien can apologize for that one.

i.

They came into the world causing mischief, or so their mother likes to tell them while woefully noting her grey hairs. She keeps on them a watchful eye, pulling them up by the ears when they need to be taught a lesson in propriety. Even so, she lets them charm her with their smiles and coax her with pretty words, because it is no secret that they are her heart.

Which is how they’ve arrived at their current dilemma, peering down the sheer rock face as they scramble for footing on the mountain side.

“I reckon we’re done for, Kíli.”

“Looks like it, Fíli. If we don’t plummet to our deaths, we’ll be strung up by our necks, made an example of.”

“Last words?”

Kíli only has a moment to think of his mother before he hears a roar from above.

“Hang on, lads, stay right where you are. I’m coming to get you.”

They crane their necks, gingerly, and their uncle is there, dark brows sternly drawn, mouth set in a firm line, much like it always is. They’ve heard the tales, riveting in their glory and despair, and that Thorin has never been the same after Thror’s death. But at their youthful ages of twenty and twenty-five, tales are but tales, and Thorin their gruff yet affectionate uncle, no more and no less.

Their shared relief is palpable when Thorin reaches down from his foothold and pulls them to safety with strong hands, Kíli first, then Fíli.

“Uncle! Right in the nick of time.” Their twin smiles falter when Thorin looks down on them disapprovingly, perhaps planning a fate for them worse than death. “Will you—tell mother?”

He considers them quietly for a moment, the lines of his face unyielding. And then he softens, placing a hand on their shoulders to guide them home.

“No. No, not today.”

 

ii.

Kíli filches the bow from the armoury after Fíli and the older lads have trudged off to training, slowing his gait only when he reaches the clearing by the mountain pass where he’s set up targets for practice. It’s been nearly a fortnight since his last visit and he takes a moment to reacquaint himself with the beauty in his hands, strong yet pliant within his grasp. The carvings along its proud curves are a labour of love, craftsmanship unparalleled. It bends sweetly when he draws it with practiced fingers and lets loose an arrow that flies straight and true.

“I am impressed.”

He jerks his head to his right and drops his bow in panic, heart intending to leap from his chest.

“Uncle.”

“That is no way to treat your weapon.” Thorin steps closer, the smile pulling at his mouth at once familiar and enigmatic. “It is _your_ weapon, I presume. The armsmaster has been complaining of late, of bows that disappear and reappear right under his nose. I fear it may be his age getting the better of him.”

“I—” Kíli scuffs his boot in the dirt and feels the weight of a confession on his tongue. The more of the world he sees, the more he has come to understand that Thorin will ever be his kin, but he is first and foremost his King. He may yet be a child in Thorin’s eyes, but he would seek to prove him wrong.

“I took the bow from the armoury without permission.” He meets Thorin’s gaze though the power and pull of it make him tremble. “I am sorry. It will not happen again.”

Thorin retrieves the bow from the ground and weighs it in his hand. 

“’Tis a good bow. It will serve you well.” He hands it to Kíli who nearly drops it again in his surprise. “Just promise me you will not go _looking_ for trouble.”

He sounds fond yet wary, fully aware that his request will likely prove futile, so Kíli promises solemnly, deciding that whatever is in his power to do, he would do for the love of his King.

 

iii.

“I will not allow it.”

There’s thunder in Thorin’s voice and fire in his veins as Dís breathes out a sigh, looking to the rolling hills in the distance and to farther, more treacherous reaches to which she would willingly send her sons.

“They are grown now. I can forbid them to go until my lips turn numb and still they will do what they wish. I cannot deny them their freedom.”

“This freedom you speak of will lead to their _deaths_!” 

He breathes deeply through his nose and gathers his wits about him. Long has he known that he would one day return to Erebor, however foolhardy and hopeless the task. Long has he known that there he would meet his end, and take his final breath within the great halls of his forefathers. But he could not, and would not, stand by and watch his nephews march towards the same fate.

“If they will not listen to their mother, then they will listen to their King. The line of Durin will not be broken.”

Dís turns to him then, eyes knowing, mourning all that has and all that will come to pass.

 

iv.

They make camp by the riverbank while cursing at the foul weather soaking their cloaks and collecting in their boots.

“I fear I will never be dry again.” The hobbit huddles against his pony, looking wretched and disheartened, no doubt wishing he’d never laid eyes on Thorin and his company.

“Cheer up, Bilbo! We’ve nearly—quite nearly—got a fire going.” As soon as the words leave Fíli’s mouth, the tiny flame beneath Gloin’s hands splutters and goes out.

“’Tis only rain. There are far worse things that lie ahead.” Thorin pats his pony absently and turns to make sure the others are accounted for, when one rears up and bolts for the river, catching them all unawares. 

“Mindy!” Kíli takes off after it, and then Fíli after his brother, before Thorin can utter a word of reproach.

The pony attempts to ford the river with Kíli and Fíli at its heels, nearly managing to catch its reins before the current, swifter and stronger in the rains, pulls them under.

“No!” Thorin roars and starts to run, as hard and fast as his feet will allow, along the embankment, careless of the branches that whip across his face as he catches sight of heads bobbing in the water, arms flailing wildly.

By some miracle, Fíli catches the strong branch of a willow at the next bend, and Kíli his brother’s waist, both yelling for Thorin with throats and lungs full of river water. 

It’s with the quick aid of Dwalin, Balin, and a thick length of rope that he pulls them to shore, with hands quaking from fear and fury, heart straining within his chest. He speaks when he can breathe again.

“Under no circumstances are you to ever run off like that again.” His voice resonates through the clearing, low and dangerous, temper thinly veiled. “Henceforth you will do what I say, when I say it, or so help me I will disown you both.”

Fíli and Kíli nod mutely, eyes downcast, teeth chattering, and he feels a weary ache deep in his bones.

“Perhaps you are being too hard on them. Their hearts are in the right place,” Balin says as he and Thorin lead the way back to camp.

“I would rather their hearts be _beating_.” Thorin looks at his old friend sharply. “Did they think I valued a pony more than their lives? Reckless, hot-headed fools.”

Balin chuckles. “Sounds to me like they take after their uncle.”

Thorin only frowns in reply and they walk the rest of the way in silence.

When they reach the camp, he sets Fíli and Kíli closest to the fire, and watches them until they start to smile again.

v.

Thorin loses track of the time in Thranduil’s dungeons, where night is endless and day retreats into memory. A guard brings food every so often but it does nothing to stave off the cold and damp seeping through his layers. Still, he takes the satisfaction of denying Thranduil the answers he seeks and sits unmoving in the center of his cell, heat flaring in his belly whenever he recalls the heartless ease with which the Elf had turned his back on Durin’s kin. Much had been lost on that day of slaughter; he would not so easily forget.

It’s when he hears news of his companions’ imprisonment that his patience falters.

“How many are there?” he demands when the guard appears to hand him his meal, hands stiff around the bars of his cage.

“That is no concern of yours,” the elf answers before walking away, fair hair unnaturally bright amid the shadows.

He rests his head against the metal, weak with fear and hope in equal measures. He trusts they have said nothing on the matter of their journey but suspects that Thranduil will be less mindful of their comfort, more relentless in his questioning. He thinks of Fíli and Kíli and how ugly they must think the world now, their spirits diminished within the hard walls of their confinement.

He lifts his head and stares out into the dark. 

“Guard!”

The elf who appears is different from the last.

“Tell your king I wish to strike a bargain.”

 

vi.

Fíli knew the moment he laid eyes on the gold of Erebor that it would come to this, but now that he’s here, he finds that he’s less afraid than he imagined. He looks to his brother, whose bow had long been broken, cutting down foes left and right with his blade, spraying goblin blood that paints his face and armour.

“Long live Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain!” he bellows, and hears Kíli echo the words. 

They move quickly to stand between the enemy and their uncle, weak on the ground with a spear protruding from his side, no doubt aimed for his heart. His hand still clutches the Elven sword, chest heaving with laboured breaths.

Fíli’s blood burns with a fiery vengeance, mouth twisted into the hideous exaggeration of a smile that he sees mirrored on his brother’s face. He thinks only of the rhythm of his blade, the ease with which it slices through flesh and bone, and the stench of the dead strewn at his feet.

Then a grunt of pain to his left jars his focus and he turns to see an arrow blooming from Kíli’s chest, then two, then three before he sinks to his knees, eyes on Fíli and smiling still, as if there is hope for them yet.

It’s then that he feels the fear creeping inward on all sides like the shadowy terrors that long ago came upon him in the night. He forgets himself, forgets how far they’ve journeyed and to what end, as he tries to reach his brother. But the enemy ranks surge and swarm, and a goblin blade catches him across the chest, slashing deeply from neck to navel. He stumbles and falls, crawling the rest of the way to Kíli on elbows and knees.

“Brother.” 

He finds no trace of his fear in Kíli’s face, only distance as he drifts further from reach, and he imagines Thorin would be proud.

“My bow.” The words are spoken quietly, without regret.

“I will find you another, more magnificent than the last.” 

He lays his head near Kíli’s and closes his eyes, to rest for only a moment. 

“One fit for a king.”


End file.
